Miss Taken Identity - part 2 (Patreon)

He had to think this through and he had to do it walking.

He waved at the girls — some gesture, the body knew it, his hand came up and made a small be right back circle and he turned and walked.

The shoes were wedges. Three inches, maybe. He didn't look down to check. The body knew how to walk in them and he let the body do it, but every step was a small negotiation. The wedge put his weight forward on the ball of his foot and the calf was working hard to hold the line. His knees were closer together than his knees had ever been. They brushed. The inside of one thigh brushed the inside of the other, a soft slide of skin on skin that he could feel along its whole length, and at the top of that slide the panties moved against him.

That was the worst part. The panties moved against him. With every step the damp fabric shifted a millimeter forward and back across — across what he had to assume was the outside of his labia, soft folds of him pressing into other soft folds of him through thin cotton, and each step gave him a tiny dragging pulse of sensation that was not pleasant exactly but was not nothing.

The pelvis was wider. He could feel it in the rotation of his hips when he walked. He was used to a stride that went mostly forward. This stride had a sideways component, his hips swung. The breasts moved with each step too — not big, not small, but there, and the bra was holding them in a position that wasn't quite where they wanted to be, so each footfall sent a small jolt through them that he felt as a tug at the bra strap on his shoulders and a corresponding answering bounce of soft tissue inside the cups.

The signal from the pelvic floor was mixed — there was the weight of something inside him, the damp of the panties, the small constant clench of the muscles holding the weight in, the pull of the panties against the front, and somewhere through all of that, the faint dull ache of a body that had been tensed for a transit. He couldn't pull the threads apart. He'd have to look.

He saw the restrooms ahead. His eyes went to the M automatically and his feet followed and he was six steps in before he realized.

A man at the sink. A man at the urinal. A man halfway through zipping up at the second urinal. All three heads came around at the same time.

He kept moving. Eye contact would finish him. He cut for the far stall, pulled the door closed, threw the latch with fingers that weren't his fingers — they were smaller, the nails were longer, a coat of nail polish on them — and stood there for a second with both palms flat against the inside of the stall door.

He turned.

The dress was a sundress, short, yellow with small white flowers. He'd been wearing it the whole time without looking at it. He gathered the hem up in both hands and lifted it off.

The panties were white. Plain cotton. They were damp through across the front in a patch about the size of a playing card, the fabric gone semi-transparent against the skin, and he could see under it his labia — the rise of the mound and the cleft of the lips just visible through the wet cotton. The hair was trimmed, short. The waistband sat low on the hipbones and the legholes cut up high.

He pulled them off.

He saw it directly for the first time. The mound, the cleft, the inner lips just barely showing where the outer ones parted. The skin was a little flushed, a little swollen. There was a sheen on the inside of the lips. He didn't know if that was arousal or just the body's normal damp, hours of nerves working through it.

He had to check.

He sat on the closed lid of the toilet. The seat was cold against the bare backs of his thighs and against the curve of his ass — the ass was wider than his ass had been, he felt the press of it against the porcelain on both sides, and the contact was direct because there was nothing between him and the seat anymore, just the flat warm pressure of his own flesh against cold plastic.

He spread his knees.

He brought one hand down and used two fingers — he didn't know whose technique this was, hers maybe, muscle memory — to part the lips. They opened easily. They were slick. He felt every millimeter of that opening from the inside, the soft give of the tissue, the way each fingertip sent a small bright signal up into his lower belly. The clit was there at the top, a small firm point under the hood, and when his finger grazed it on the way down a jolt went through him that he was not prepared for and his hips jerked an inch off the seat without his permission.

He bit the inside of his lip. Focus.

He went lower. He found the opening of the vagina with his middle finger — wet, warm, and there was something there, just inside, not far. A hard edge. He pushed gently and felt it shift, slick against the walls, a small flat rectangular thing maybe an inch in. Vacuum-sealed plastic. He hooked the pad of his finger behind one corner of it and worked it slowly toward him. The walls gripped it on the way out — he could feel the slight reluctance, the suction, then the wet release as the corner cleared.

The packet slid into his palm.

It was the size of a deck of cards, a little flatter. The plastic was clear and smudged, a film of clear-pink slick over the whole thing. Inside, white powder, packed tight. He stood up with the packet in his hands and he understood several things at once.

She'd walked the packet through customs. The job was done. The man in the alligator boots was the pickup.

There was a soft shoosh as the restroom door swung open.

The conversation at the sinks — two men, low voices in some language he didn't speak — stopped. He heard the man at the second urinal zip himself the rest of the way up in one fast pull. He heard footsteps. Heavy in the heel. A hard sole that clicked once on the tile and then dragged, half a beat, click and drag, click and drag. The cadence of someone who had time and knew the room would empty.

The other men left. He heard the door swing twice, fast, and then it was just the two sets of feet — his bare ones on the cold tile inside the stall, and the boots, outside, getting closer.

The boots stopped.

Under the gap of the stall door, two toes appeared and squared up. Dark green. The pebbled hide along the vamp. A small bright bead of polish on the welt where someone had touched up the leather that morning.

The packet was in his hand. Between his legs he could still feel the wet release of where the packet had just been, the walls slowly closing back on the space it had occupied, a small empty echo of the weight he'd been carrying.

The boots didn't move.